He reached the grave-yard of the parish church, for this had been selected as the scene of the experiment, since the monks would be singing the night office in the Abbey.
And as he went through the church-yard to the porch, he could not help looking timorously from side to side, it seemed so strange to be alone with the dead, when the living were asleep; he was glad to get inside, the shadows of the yew trees looked so ghastly on the cold graves, and the chill moon looked upon the last low resting places with such a ghostly light.
He tried the door of the church; it was locked, as usual at that hour.
There was a broad bench on each side the porch; he sat and waited.
And I think he fell asleep and dreamt, but this was the story he told.
When the clock tolled the hour of midnight the last sound of the bell was prolonged, as if the organ in its softest tones had taken up the note; the music grew louder, until the introit of the Mass for the dead pealed out distinctly.
“Requiem æternam dona eis Domine, et lux perpetua luceat eis.”
Then as he started up in amazement, the door swung open, and the “fetches or doubles” of those who were to die that year, that is, their ghostly likenesses, came out to seek their graves.
And there were many whom the boy knew, but last of all came out from the church the form of his benefactor, Richard Whiting, Lord Abbot of Glastonbury.
And around his neck there hung a ghastly cord, and close by his side followed Prior and Sub-Prior, and cords were about their necks too.